The Who, Wembley Arena, review: 'high-voltage virtuosity'

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On May 1, it'll be 50 years since veteran rock icons The Who first appeared at this enduring enormodome next to Wembley stadium. On that occasion, they played alongside the Beatles and the Rolling Stones at the 1966 NME Pollwinners' Party.

Here, they were kicking off the final leg of a world tour they've been billing as their last, warming up for a 28-date trawl across North America, which opens in Detroit on Saturday week.

The band's irascible guitarist and lyricist, Pete Townshend, now 70, jokingly noted in the run-up that The Who Hits 50 Tour was undertaken “to demonstrate that even this particular gang can grow old – not necessarily gracefully, but ungracefully, or whatever it is that we’re doing”.

The show has already been greeted feverishly around the world, for providing the kind of no-nonsense barrage of unassailable rock classics, which, in this heritage-rock era, only the Stones and Paul McCartney can rival.

Last summer, however, it ran into problems. Townshend branded their festival-closing set at Glastonbury as “one of the very worst the band has ever played”. They later claimed their gear had been “sabotaged”.

Come September, their second US jaunt in as many years was postponed, after their rasping singer, Roger Daltrey, 71, was diagnosed with viral meningitis. The American dates were duly rescheduled, with tonight’s show slotted in as a casual loosener – in front of a mere 12,500 devotees.

Their introductory stage backdrop read "Keep Calm, Here Comes The Who Are Coming", and as the opening Who Are You? flew out of the traps, everything indeed seemed to be back working properly, with Townshend literally punching his guitar strings, and Daltrey bringing his familiar growling menace.

"I'm still working off my Christmas pud," noted the former, during an early breather, while the latter charitably deemed the venue "still the same p---hole it always was".

Townshend went on to jest that he couldn't see his set list, and that if he bent over for a closer look, he may never get up again. There was, however, a robust and entirely unwilting muscularity to the opening sequence of Sixties nuggets they pummelled forth, which included The Seeker, The Kids Are Alright, and a sparkling I Can See For Miles.

By "My Generation" - "'before I get old', who f--- wrote that?", quipped Townshend again - The Who were in full flight, powered to astonishing heights by an especially up-for-it Zak Starkey, son of Ringo Starr, on drums.

The hits kept coming - a savage Bargain, You Better You Bet given fresh zip - and, in the shadow of David Bowie's passing, it felt thoroughly appropriate simply to bask in this mighty band's ear-blasting past glories.

A dip into 1973's rock opera, Quadrophenia, reduced its meandering existential agonies to a comparatively lean exhibition of high-voltage group virtuosity, setting the scene for a dazzling home run. It was jumpstarted by an euphoric Pinball Wizard and culminated, around the two-hour mark, with a bruisingly uplifting Won't Get Fooled Again, every punter from eight to 80 punching the air like a victorious revolutionary.

In short, America's in for a treat. As these grizzled septuagenarians milked the ovation for their feats of rockin’ physicality like punch-drunk boxers, there were no hard-and-fast goodbyes. “We hope to see you again soon,” gushed Townshend. Sustained touring may now be off the agenda, but the door appears to be very much open for one-off appearances. Whatever it is that they’re doing, it’s unlikely that The Who, in this form, will give it up voluntarily.